Not Here, Not Now, Not Him
by The Girl with the Mousy Hair
Summary: An accident befalls Sam Tyler on his way home one Friday night. Someone comes to his rescue - but is it rescue or recruitment?
1. Chapter 1

It started on a dull, damp Friday night in October. Sam was making his way back to his flat, leaving the rest of CID to their increasingly raucous drinking and darts. He could foresee a dart to the face for someone before long, and he didn't want to be around when it happened.

Well, maybe it depended on whose face...

He shut that thought down. He was above that kind of petty spite - it was bad for his karma. Or his chi. Or both, possibly.

He shoved his hands further into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the rain. He'd popped the collar on his jacket but it wouldn't stay put, and he'd just been getting wetter and colder trying to hold it in place. So he hunched, and hoped this would offer some meagre improvement, or at least would stop the rain running down his neck. He could already feel little rivulets running across his scalp, where his short hair had soaked right through. He thought longingly of home - real home, not the ever-cold and soulless bedsit he was reluctantly trudging towards now. Proper home, with central heating, and a proper duvet. And gin.

He heaved an unheard sigh, eyes watching the pavement underfoot as he skirted round the worst of the puddles. The stuttering streetlights cast their orange glow, drawing the colours out of everything, making his shadow lengthen and shorten. The streets were quiet at this time of night - everyone was settled in for the evening one way or another; fish suppers in front of the telly or pints of lager down the local. It wasn't a night to be out in.

As this crossed Sam's mind, and as he began to ask himself why exactly he _was_ out in it, then, a movement drew his eye. Another pedestrian, a girl, had come round the corner from a side street, and was now making her way along the other side of the road. Her bobbed hair and the fur trim on her coat were both flattened with the rain, and she, too, had her hands deep in her pockets and her chin tucked in, to keep out the worst of the cold. Her bag swung from one shoulder, gently bouncing off her hip as she made her determined way onwards. She was walking towards Sam, but with her head down and, presumably, her mind on getting wherever she was going as fast as she could, she hadn't seen him. Her flares dragged on the ground, sodden wet, adding a swishing sound to her quick footsteps. Sam began to look away again, when he noticed that she wasn't alone. Emerging slowly around the same corner was a tall man, with a scarf drawn up over his face. He, too, had his hands in his pockets - no, wait. Just one hand in his pocket. And he wasn't hunched over, as Sam and the girl were; he had his head up, moving carefully and steadily. His eyes were fixed on the woman in front of him.

Sam was between streetlights, just out of the pool of light from either, and without thinking about it, he stopped. He watched the newcomer to the scene, his copper's instinct thoroughly roused and sniffing the air.

_You're off duty_, he thought. He batted the idea away - a good copper was never, ever off duty. Never.

_What's it to you? One more mugging in Imaginary Manchester. So what?_

As always, when an intrusive thought like this came along, he felt a stab of guilt, made all the more pronounced by the fact that this inner voice was so beguiling. He just wanted to get back to his miserable excuse for a flat, have a glass of wine and go to bed. He just wanted to get out of these wet clothes - his shirt was sticking to his chest, where his jacket opened at the front. He just wanted a quiet night, for once, with no voices from the TV, no Gene Hunt breaking in his front door and no bad dreams. And that also meant no playing the knight in shining armour.

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.

As he tried to pretend he wasn't thinking any of this, the man on the other side of the street had edged closer to the girl in front of him. His longer stride was making it easy for him to catch up; there was no need for him to run, no heavy footfalls to give him away. He hadn't noticed that he was being observed; even if there had been a spotlight on him, Sam suspected the guy was too focussed to see anything but his intended victim.

_Leave it. Just keep walking._

Sam felt his muscles twitch, as though to do exactly that, but he won the battle with himself and stayed put. Both woman and man had passed him, now, and as he turned slightly to continue watching, he saw the opening of an alleyway ahead of them. In a flash he knew what was coming - the woman was going to turn down that alley (that dark, unsafe alley), and the mugger was going to have his chance.

_Stupid bitch._

Sam's eyes actually widened - he couldn't believe he would think that. He wasn't that guy; he was a feminist, for God's sake. And a police officer - fighting crime, protecting people, that was what he did. What he was.

In front of him, the scenario started to play out exactly as he'd predicted, and the girl with the bobbed hair turned into the alleyway and out of sight. Her unseen consort, not far behind her now, followed suit.

Before he could have any further upsetting thoughts, Sam set off at a jog across the road. Now that he was in motion, his mind was clear and sharp; this was not only the right thing to do, it was the only possible thing. He increased his jog to a sprint, realising that he might actually have left it too late to intervene, the thought making his heart stutter and increasing his sense of urgency.

He barrelled in to the narrow lane after the pair, hearing himself shout 'Oi! P'lice!'. That might not exactly be in the rule book, announcing himself like that, but he'd picked up a few bad habits since waking up here. He screeched to a halt as he saw the two figures just ahead. They'd hardly got any distance into the alley before the man had made his move.

The scene in front of him was just as he feared, though not as bad as it could have been; the girl had her back pressed against one of the mossy brick walls, the mugger in front of her, standing far too close - maybe a mugging wasn't all he'd had in mind, then. Sam felt a flare of rage, which he contained as best he could.

'Step away,' he said, firmly and clearly, standing silhouetted against the entrance to the alley. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that the assailant had taken his hand from his pocket to reveal a short, broad bladed knife, which he was holding in an underhand grip at his victim's stomach. The girl had been taking off her jewellery - the gold of a ring and bracelet glinted in what little light there was, as she held them out to him in a cupped hand. Her bag lay on the ground next to them, where it had either fallen from her shoulder or been grabbed and dropped.

The mugger seemed too shocked at Sam's appearance to do anything, and both he and the woman stood in a frozen tableau, staring at the interloper.

'Step away, now,' Sam repeated, voice still strong. He began to walk towards them, his hands raised and spread open in that universal gesture.

'Fuck off, pig.' The man's voice was muted by the scarf he still wore over his face, but Sam had no trouble understanding him. Another spike of anger needled at him, but outwardly he remained calm. He took another step forward.

'Drop your weapon.' He had kept his hands up - he'd nothing to threaten the guy with, anyway, he realised now. His gun was back at the station, locked away safely, and he didn't carry a stick these days. This was definitely an oversight.

The would-be mugger had turned to face him now. 'I said, fuck off.' Sam could hear a little fear in the muffled voice, but not as much as he'd have liked. A little fear could make a person more desperate, more dangerous. This guy was a fighter, not a runner, and he was armed. He'd taken a step back, away from the girl, and brought the knife around with him, holding it low by his side in a clenched fist. Sam found that he wanted to wet his lips, some of his certainty and confidence draining away in the face of such determined opposition. Instead, he took another step forward, bringing him almost within arm's reach.

'Drop your weapon, and step away.'

His own voice remained steady, and he lowered his arms to his sides again, preparing for what looked like an inevitable fight. This time the mugger actually gave a derisive snort behind his improvised mask, then took a sudden and unexpected lunge forward. Sam had no time to react - it had happened so quickly - and he grunted as he was punched in the stomach. He struggled to stay upright, and brought his own fist up and round, catching his assailant in the jaw. He was treated to a second, harder punch to the gut that left him winded, and he dropped to his knees, raising his arms to cover his head while he tried to catch his breath. He felt a kick land on his shoulder, driving him completely to the ground, flat on his back on the wet cobbles. He knew he had to get back up and defend himself, and the woman, but even as he thought this he heard running footsteps. He risked a look from behind his arms, expecting to see the woman taking the opportunity to run, and glad that there would be one less thing to worry about. Instead, she was standing over him, her face glowing white in the gloom, her mouth open.

Sam pushed himself up to a sitting position, one knee bent, gasping at the unexpected pain but forcing it to the back of his mind for now.

'Are you alright?' he asked her, looking around to make sure they were really alone. He couldn't believe the guy had run off like that. Thank God he had, it had started to look serious there. When the woman didn't answer him, he turned his face back to hers.

'Are you alright?' he asked again. She seemed to be too shaken to speak, though Sam noticed that her hands were working on putting her jewellery back on. He felt a grim satisfaction at that; the guy hadn't got anything. He'd been just in time to stop him.

The woman had begun to shake her head, her mouth moving as though to form words.

'It's alright,' Sam said, deciding that shock was probably setting in. 'Come on, we'll get you down the station, someone can take you home from there.'

'I'm sorry,' she said, in a breathless rush.

Sam smiled up at her, as reassuringly as possible for a man with his arse in a puddle. 'You're fine. Everything's going to be fine.' He pushed himself up with one hand, bringing his second knee up to lever himself off the ground. The pain was immediate, and enormous - there was no way to ignore it this time. The smile froze on his face, then turned to a grimace as he collapsed to the ground again.

The girl's face appeared overhead, hazy in the rain.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered again. 'I'm so sorry.' She ducked out of sight, and Sam heard her pick up her bag - he couldn't turn his head to look. The pain was leaving him weak. He dragged a hand that weighed a ton to his stomach, and when it landed there was another burst of agony, like fireworks behind his eyes, and his head swam.

She was standing next to him again, the girl, and looking down with her pale face and wide eyes.

'I'm sorry.' This time it was more of a whimper, and she turned abruptly and ran off, back towards the street.

'Wait...' Sam tried to shout after her, but she didn't hesitate. He was starting to feel sick, and tried again to sit up. This time he couldn't even make it that far; the pain was too great, the strength had been drained from his arms. Lying on the cold cement, he held his hand up to his face. It took all the effort he had in him, and when he saw the viscous smear of red across his fingers, swirling and running down to his palm and dripping on to his shirt, he finally accepted the truth.

He let his hand drop to the ground, his knuckles clattering against the stone in a way that would surely have been painful any other time. He felt cold, clammy. He couldn't catch his breath. He was going to die here, in an alleyway, all for trying to help some thankless bitch. This time it didn't even occur to him to try and unthink it. He hated her. He was bleeding to death, alone in the dark, and it was all her fault.

All. Her. Fucking. Fault.

The anger tasted bitter in his mouth.

He wondered if, after he died, he would wake up at home again. Maybe. Did he even want to? His thoughts of earlier, of central heating and gin and tonic, seemed shallow and unimportant. Everything seemed meaningless. The spinning world seemed to tilt on its axis, and as the darkness closed in, he shut his eyes.

Footsteps in the dark. A strong arm behind his head. A nipping at his neck, sharp and painless at the same time, disconnected from him. Then, someone making him drink, and wanting to at first but soon trying to turn away. It wasn't water. He didn't like it. They insisted, holding his head and forcing him. It was hot, and cloying. Salty and metallic, like when his mum used to make him eat his liver and he'd cried over it when he was little, cried because it was so horrible, but she'd cajoled him and convinced him and, when it came to it, made him sit at the table for hours as it grew cold and congealed on the plate, even worse than when it was hot, and she still made him eat it.

_'You want to grow up big and strong, don't you Sammy?'_

He swallowed, the irony taste coating his mouth and throat like medicine, churning his stomach. The pressure on his head let up a little, and he drew in a huge, gasping breath, eyes squeezed shut, before he was drawn back in, back to the source, and this time he gulped more readily. And somehow, it wasn't so bad any more. He wanted another sip, and after one more nobody was holding his head any more and he was drinking freely, feeling the warmth run back into his cold body, stopping only to gasp in air when he had to. Then, all too soon, he was pushed away, and he gave a wordless moan, trying to reach out, but his arms still felt heavy, weak, lifeless.

'Sleep now.' The voice was cultured, and even with so few words, oddly persuasive. He felt himself lifted from the ground, and then he let the black return.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sam woke up, it was to find himself in his crappy bedsit, lying on the rickety bed. He was bare chested, his shoes were off and he was covered over with the scratchy wool blanket from the cupboard. He felt a jolt as he remembered everything, and he scrabbled with the covers, flinging them off. He didn't know what he expected to see, but it wasn't this. There was no blood, not anywhere. There were no bandages, either. On the left side of his stomach, there were two weals - pink round the edges, redder in the centre, at least half-healed. Had he been unconscious for that long? He supposed it was possible, though when he ran a hand over his jaw he felt only a prickle of stubble, no more than a day's worth. _Was_ it possible? A coma within a coma? He looked at the wounds again, gingerly touching the edges of one with the tip of his finger. It was tender, but not really painful. He thought of the pain he'd experienced before passing out - he'd been stabbed. Fatally, he'd thought at the time. There was no way he should have recovered so fast. Hell, when Gene had accidentally given him a black eye last week it had taken days to fade. This... this was something else.

'Good morning.' The voice came from the table by the window, and Sam whipped his head around. A dark haired man sat there, straight backed in the wooden chair, one of Sam's few paperback novels in his hand and a cup and saucer on the table in front of him. Sam tried to leap up, but he was weaker than he'd thought and though he made it to his feet, he felt in no fit state to go any further. He settled for standing by the head of the bed, hand on the ledge there to support him.

'Who're you?' he demanded, half a dozen other questions lining themselves up even as he spoke, jostling to be next.

The man began to stand.

'Stay down!' Sam barked. 'Stay where you are.' The stranger nodded, spreading his hands in that same conciliatory gesture as Sam had made last night (was it last night?), but realising as he lowered himself back into the chair that he still held a book in his hand. He closed it over and laid it down on the table, carefully, before holding his hands out again, palms upwards. He bowed his head, eyes cast down, as though to acknowledge some minor faux pas.

'You are understandably cautious. I apologise.'

His tone was formal, almost stilted, and his accent unrepentantly upper class. He was dressed casually - but only just, as though he'd been made to wear the cream polo shirt against his will and had expressed his rebellion by ironing the life out of it. He raised his eyes again - dark brown eyes, though of course everything was dark in here, with the curtains drawn - and held Sam's gaze evenly. His features were soft - young, Sam realised with surprise, despite his stiff manners he couldn't be much past his mid-twenties. His features were soft, yes, but his eyes - they told a different story. There was no threat in them, no aggression, but there was a sense of poise and self control that hinted of something else. He folded his hands in his lap.

'My name is Hal - but perhaps that is not the question you would really like answered,' he said, in the same mild tone. His slim face wore a carefully bland expression.

'You're bloody right it's not!' Sam fumed, eyes wide.

'I will do my best to answer the question as it was intended, then. My name is Hal, and I am a vampire.'

Sam began to give a deliberately exaggerated nod. 'Oh! A vampire! Of course!' he exclaimed. He touched the tips of his left fingers to his temples, thumb resting lightly on his cheek, and lifted them all away again quickly, as though having a lightbulb moment, raising his eyebrows in mock enlightenment. 'And here was me thinking you were an escaped lunatic.'

Hal gave a tight, polite smile, keeping his hands in his lap but beginning to tap the fingers of his left hand over the knuckles of his right in a quick pattern.

'I know that it is hard to believe, but nevertheless, it is true. And, I'm sorry to say...' Here he paused, looking a little stuck for words. '...I'm sorry to say that after last night, you are, too.'

Sam started to laugh, taking his hands off the supporting ledge and folding his arms across his chest. Hal only watched him, fingers drumming ceaselessly.

'Listen... Hal, was it?' Sam raised his eyebrows as Hal nodded once. 'Well, Hal, I want you to tell me who you are, and how you got into my house, and I want you to tell me RIGHT FUCKING NOW.' His raised voice filled the room, but the stranger didn't flinch. Sam continued, with a hint of laughter still in his voice, though all traces of good humour had vanished. 'It's been great, this. It's been a real laugh riot, but I've had enough of this game now, yeah?' He swept his arms out in front of him, uncrossing them in a wide gesture of negation, hands flattened into blades. 'Enough.'

Hal looked up at him, still seated, maintaining his composure, though his hand continued to jump and twitch.

'I have told you who I am. I gather that you're a police officer, and as such I'd hope you have the ability to retain information for longer than a few minutes.' There was flint in his words, and Sam clenched his jaw, lips drawn together as though to keep a further furious outburst inside. Hal left a pause, as though to see if the words were going to burst out anyway, and when they didn't, he continued.

'I saw the young woman running from the alleyway last night. She seemed in some distress, and I went to find out why. I saw you on the ground. You were dead.'

Sam couldn't contain himself. 'I wasn't dead,' he snapped, tendrils of fright creeping into his heart despite his bluster. Again, Hal left a longer than necessary pause.

'May I continue?' he finally asked, to which Sam gave no reply. This guy had broken into his house, who knows what all he'd been up to while Sam was out cold, he was obviously a raving mental case, and yet he still had the upper hand in this conversation. Sam had no idea how that could have happened, and worse still he had no idea how to turn things around. Hal had begun speaking again.

'To all intents and purposes, you were dead. Your heart had two or three beats remaining when I found you, no more than that.' Sam forced himself to stay silent. Maybe the secret to regaining the upper hand would be to let the man get wrapped up in his own fantasy, maybe he would lose his composure if Sam let him ramble.

Seeing that he was not to be interrupted again, Hal carried on.

'I bit you - for that I apologise, but it is a necessary part of the process.' Sam noticed a brief flicker in Hal's eyes, which he filed away for future reference. 'I bit you, then I fed you, and then while you were... asleep... I brought you here.'

'You fed me?' Sam kept his tone low; the fright had been joined by a creeping horror. He remembered being bitten, the spark of pain in his neck that had seemed insignificant at the time. He remembered drinking... something. His stomach clenched. 'Fed me what?'

Hal only looked at him, a species of sympathy in his eyes now. 'You remember,' he said, simply. Sam swallowed, hard. His mouth was suddenly dry. He looked around - sometimes he left a glass of water by the bed...

'I have made tea. Will you let me pour you some?'

Just as things seemed like they couldn't get any more bizarre, the man claiming to be a vampire offers to pour me a cup of tea...

_It's not tea you want, though. Is it?_

Sam blinked. He was used to having conversations in his head, and to a near-constant internal monologue, but this thought it had been... different. It was his voice, alright, but it had been stronger than usual, louder in his mind. He took a breath, determined not to show the other man any more weakness than he already had.

'You stay where you are.' His words were commanding, his voice steady, and hearing it made him feel better. Hal gave a light shrug, which set Sam's teeth back on edge, and settled himself back into the chair, insofar as anyone with such rigid posture could be said to settle in anywhere.

Sam walked over to the kitchen and turned the tap on. He looked over his shouder at Hal, who was sitting quietly as promised, seeming to look into the middle distance. When Sam reached into the cupboard to draw out a glass, he encountered something unfamiliar that drew his attention back.

The cupboard had been rearranged. His meagre collection of glasses, most of which had been donated by Nelson from the pub, were arranged by size. Next to them, another three cups and saucers that he hadn't even known he owned - that explained where Hal got the ones he was using right now - sat, looking for all the world like a display in an old lady's china cabinet. His plates had always been stacked by size (of course, that was the only sensible thing to do), but now they were on the opposite side of the shelf, their old spot being taken up by a neat stack of the few pots and pans that had come with the flat.

Sam gawped in at them all for a moment, in their stacks and rows, then slowly lifted out a glass and closed the door over. He looked down at the glass, which he thought might have been recently polished and buffed, then back at his guest. Hal remained seated; he had drawn something small out of his pocket, which he was now toying with, and he was paying no heed to Sam.

The water was running cold enough to leave condensation on the tap, and Sam filled his glass before shutting it off. He'd forgotten about the dryness in his mouth, but it came back with a vengeance now, and he drained half his glass in one before turning and walking, slowly, back to the bed. He cautiously judged that it would be safe enough to take a seat, as long as he kept his wits about him. Besides, his stomach was killing him. Poor choice of words, there, maybe... but a rest would do him good. He made his way around the bed until he could sit on the side nearest the window. Hal regarded him as he sat down.

'You reorganised my cupboards,' said Sam, unable to put this distracting fact to the side.

Hal nodded, showing an unexpected flicker of enthusiasm. 'Yes: glasses shortest to tallest, plates biggest to smallest, pots widest to narrowest. Also, I ran the hoover round. It's not a great model but I did what I could. I took the liberty of cleaning your bathroom, too - though, I must say, it made for short work.' He tipped his head again, this time as though in recognition from one artist to another. He was close to smiling. Sam shook his head slowly, glass in one hand tipping dangerously to one side.

'I was right the first time. You're a bloody lunatic.' He was almost in awe.

'It helps me,' Hal said simply, the hint of a smile fading. He brushed a curl of his tousled hair back from where it had fallen into his eyes, hiding his face for a moment. 'Do you wish me to continue?'

'Oh yes, yes. Continue, by all means,' said Sam, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

'Very well. Let us say that while you were recovering, you were able to give me enough information to find out where you lived. Your keys were in your jacket pocket, and I let us in. I thought that the least I could do was wait, while you rested, so that I could be here when you awoke. I came across your warrant card, in the inner pocket - I replaced it where I found it. Your shirt, by the way, is soaking in the sink - I fear I'm not much good with a needle and thread, but perhaps you will be able to fix the tears. The staining should be minimal, I took care of that much. I cleaned your face and hands, so that the bedcovers wouldn't be soiled.' He looked expectantly at Sam, no doubt waiting for another outburst.

Sam tried to take it all in.

'So, what you're telling me is that you carried me home, gave me a sponge bath, then cleaned my house while I was unconscious.' Hal looked as though he might have something to say, but changed his mind and only nodded. 'Great. Well, thanks for clearing that up, but I think it's time you were going.'

Sam felt that he would never get to the bottom of this, and on top of everything else he was starting to feel dizzy again. He took a sip of water, which didn't help.

'That won't be possible,' Hal replied, in a commiserating tone. 'You will need my assistance in the coming weeks, perhaps months. There are things you don't understand.'

'You've got that right,' said Sam, thinking it might just be the understatement of his life. 'I think I'll be able to figure it all out on my own, though, so if you don't mind...' He put the glass on the floor, stood up, a little unsteadily, and gestured to the door.

Hal didn't move.

'You don't believe me.'

'What gave it away?' Sam's voice crackled with bitter humour.

'Look in the mirror,' Hal suggested. He had stopped fidgeting with whatever he'd taken from his pocket - it was folded up in his palm, now - and he remained in the chair as though he planned on staying for dinner.

'No,' replied Sam, flatly. The fright was back, and the horror, and the nausea and the vertigo... 'No.' He tried to keep his voice, and himself, steady. 'You can leave by the door, or perhaps you'd prefer to fly? It might be a squeeze, the window gets stuck half way.' He fixed his eyes on his visitor, trying to project confidence and strength. He noted the taut muscles in Hal's narrow shoulders, the defined arms under the short sleeves of his shirt, and hoped it wouldn't come to a fight. He wasn't big, but he looked strong, and Sam wasn't sure he could beat him, in his current state.

'Look in the mirror,' repeated Hal, 'and then, if you still don't believe me, I will go. By the door,' he added, in what might have been a sardonic tone.

Seeing that it might be the only way to make any progress, Sam stood. He'd moved the full-length mirror, only recently - he'd been jumping at his own reflection on bad nights, when it had been next to the bed. It was now next to the front door, facing the wall so that it couldn't catch his eye any more.

As he approached it, he found himself reluctant to look. Perhaps this madness was catching. He turned around, and took the last few steps backwards, looking at Hal, who hadn't moved from his chair.

'Have you thought about seeing a doctor, at all? Trying out some new medication? No reason, you understand, just wondering...' Hal didn't rise to his jibes, and in the face of that insistent silence, Sam had no option but to turn back.

There was a high ringing in Sam's ears as he gripped the sides of the frame. As he turned the mirror round, he looked back over his shoulder again. He wanted to say something clever, something witty, something that would show he wasn't afraid, but nothing came to mind. His expression, unknown to him, pleaded for a reprieve. Hal met his gaze for a moment, with that sympathy back in his expression, then he gestured to the mirror. Sam turned back, reluctantly. Without strictly meaning to, he kept his eyes shut, in a too-long blink. Finally, he released the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, and looked. The mirror reflected his flat - the bed, the edge of the table, the empty arm chair, the window. What wasn't there was his face - the face he'd been accustomed to seeing every day of his life. In fact, there was no sign of him at all. It was as though he wasn't there. The god awful wallpaper was there, reflected perfectly - he turned round, seeing the same wallpaper in real life - and then back to the mirror. He still wasn't in it. He tilted it a little, to show the whole table and the other chair - Hal wasn't there, either.

He whipped back round to confront him, letting the mirror bang back against the wall, the whining noise in his ears louder, and the spinning motion sending him more dizzy than ever.

'It's a trick,' he insisted. 'You've done something to it. You've... you... Just get out!' The edges of his vision began to pixelate, the colours turning to black. He ran a shaking hand over his face.

Hal was shaking his head sadly. 'I know it's hard to believe. Let me show you something. It may... it may help.' He stood, unfolding slowly out of the seat, and Sam threw up his hands, fists clenched.

'Don't come near me!' He staggered back a step, as Hal ignored him and moved closer.

'DI Tyler,' he said, in a gentle voice. Sam dropped his hands, reeling on his feet, and as he watched, the stranger in his flat blinked. When he opened his eyes again, they were completely black, and he lifted his upper lip to reveal to sharp fangs that had not been there a second ago. He seemed to be hissing, but Sam couldn't be sure because at that moment, for the first time since he was in woodwork class and hit his thumb with the hammer, Sam Tyler fainted.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sam came round for the second time, he was back in bed, covered with the same woollen blanket as before. He sat bolt upright, then had to wait for the blooming black flowers in his vision to fade away, hanging his head forwards and closing his eyes, brow tightened in a frown.

'DI Tyler. How are you feeling?'

His head wanted to whip round to the source of the voice, which of course was Hal back in his now-accustomed seat at the rickety table. He exercised restraint over that instinct, not least to avoid another fainting spell. He also couldn't help but feel disappointed that it hadn't all been just another bad dream. _Unless it still is, of course._.. That hope had been tissue-thin to start with, and was wearing thinner with every moment.

_Oh, strap on a pair Tyler. Stop hiding._

That was Gene Hunt, no question about it. Jesus, there wasn't going to be room in his head before long. Still, as ever, Gene's voice was grounding (to say the least), and Sam rubbed his hands over his face only briefly before looking over at Hal. Sure enough, he was in the same chair, sitting as straight as a kid in church who's been bribed to behave. He had the domino out again, and Sam could only assume he'd been walking it across his knuckles, though for now it was only perched between the first and second fingers of Hal's right hand.

'How'm I feeling?' He bleakly repeated Hal's question as he took all this in. 'Oh, you know. I've been stabbed, died, turned into a vampire, fainted and been put to bed by another man - twice - in the space of what I can only assume is about twelve hours. I'm fine. How're you?'

Hal gave a thin smile.

'It's a lot to take in.'

Sam snorted dry laughter. 'You've got that right.' He looked around for his glass of water, which was still by the side of the bed where he had left it. He leant carefully to retrieve it, drained it in one long swig, then began to stand again, trying subtly to take it easy in case he should come over dizzy again. He hated feeling weak, even more so if there was someone here to see and perhaps even take advantage of it.

'You're thirsty,' said Hal, maintaining an increasingly annoying colourless tone.

'You really are perceptive, you know. Have you considered a career in law enforcement?' Sam made it up out of bed and paced slowly to the sink, making it there without incident. Again, he took half of his first glass at a draft, then refilled before heading back, with a little more confidence. His legs felt strong again, his vision remained clear, he didn't feel any swooping vertigo as he had before. He also realised, as he went, that the ache in his stomach seemed to be less. He looked down at the two scars, and he could have sworn they were less red and - could they be? Smaller?

He looked up at Hal, suddenly aware that the other man was watching him.

'You're healing nicely,' Hal said, for all the world as though this was normal.

'Healing nicely? I'm like bloody Wolverine!' Hal only blinked at this - minus the special effects, this time - and Sam realised that film wouldn't come out for another 27 years. Shit. When did the comics start? He took a punt.

'You know... like the comic book? The X Men?' Hal continued to look blank. 'Charles Xavier? Bald, psychic bloke in a wheelchair. Gets in your head, messes about. You'd like him, actually.'

'I don't keep up to date with popular culture,' Hal said, dismissively, ignoring the jibe.

'Oh, I'm up to date enough for both of us,' Sam muttered, returning, as he had earlier, to sit on the side of the bed nearest the table. He took another long sip of water, willing it to soothe his parched throat, and Hal watched him do it.

Sam cocked an eyebrow. 'Should I be charging for this, or what? I'm only having a drink.'

This time, Hal didn't smile. 'You're thirsty,' he repeated, 'but that water isn't helping.'

'Course it is,' said Sam defiantly, taking another sip and disproving his own point.

'It isn't,' Hal insisted, the sibilants and consonants clicking into place precisely. 'It's not what you need.'

Sam sighed, briefly squeezing his eyes closed. 'Stop pissing about, Hal. I'm not a vampire.'

'Then how do you explain the mirror? How do you explain the healing?'

Sam had no answer to this, as Hal knew that he wouldn't. Something struck him, though, and he reached up to his neck. His St Christopher's medal was still there.

'How come this isn't... I dunno... burning my skin off, or something?' he asked, holding it out to Hal. 'And how come you can look at it? Eh?' He felt triumphant, as though he'd found a loophole in an argument.

Hal tried to be patient. 'I'm an Old One - an old vampire. Religious iconography doesn't affect us.'

Sam shook the medal at him, as much as the chain would allow, then grabbed it in his fist, pressing the metal into his palm. 'What about me, then? According to you, I've been a vampire for, what, half a day? That's pretty new. But look, no burning, nothing.' There was an edge of desperation in his voice that he hadn't meant to put there. Even as he berated himself for that, Hal was answering him.

'Yes, but it's yours, you see,' he was saying. 'You have an emotional attachment to it.'

Sam snorted, trying to regain some of the ground he felt he'd lost. 'That's all pretty convenient,' he said. 'Don't remember any of that from Dracula.'

Hal let out a sigh in a moment of outward exasperation.

'Look, DI Tyler - Sam - I know this is a lot to understand. You seem sensible enough, and it must all sound like nonsense to you, but you simply have to accept it if we are to deal with things properly.'

'_Deal_ with things?' Sam didn't like the sound of that.

'Yes. We must put procedures in place to make you safe.' As Sam looked at him, Hal's expression softened, the frustrations of a moment ago forced back down. 'I can help you.' His brown eyes held steady, radiating an earnestness that Sam had rarely seen here in 1973, and certainly not from eyes of this colour... He didn't allow that to distract him from his cynical stance.

'Even if I did believe you, I don't think I'd want help from someone who made himself a new vampire last night. How long until you get bored of me and go out looking for someone new?' Sam had meant his words to provoke, but Hal's reaction was more intense than expected. He pushed himself to his feet, thumping the table with both hands and angling his whole body forwards.

'You would have _died_ if I hadn't,' he snarled, voice suddenly menacing, the muscles in his arms bunching. The earnest look was gone, swallowed up in defiance and anger. There were shadows on his face where there hadn't been shadows before, in the hollows of his jaw, under the shelf of his brow. Sam let his own emotions rise, and stood up. He felt almost glad that they were arguing again. At least this was familiar ground.

'Listen, whatever your name really is,' he said. 'It's been a very trying night. I don't need you making it any worse. I don't know why I haven't called this in already, had someone come and bang you up.' His hands had risen of their own accord, gesticulating to the door as though to conjure up a couple of plods by force of will.

Hal drew himself away from the table and up to his full height - he had a few inches on Sam - and put his hands behind his back. 'You are welcome to try, DI Tyler. In fact, the way I feel now, I would be delighted if you did.'

'Is that so?' Sam asked, tilting his head and nodding in mock interest, arms slowly making their way down to his sides, hands beginning to curl loosely.

'Yes, it is. God, you really can be hard of understanding, can't you?' Hal stepped gracefully out from behind the table, hands still behind his back but freeing himself of the barrier between them.

Sam took a measured step closer, then another, a definite swagger to his shoulders now.

'Oh really?'

'Here we go again... Yes, Detective Inspector. Really.' Hal took one long step in, and they were face to face now, within arm's length of each other. Hal's expression was goading Sam into doing something that he knew he'd regret.

'Listen to me, you insufferable twat,' he began, keeping his voice low but unable to help the lapse into vulgarity. 'You did me a favour, getting me off the street last night, and for that I'm willing to let you walk. But you would be well advised not to push me.'

'I shouldn't push you?'

Sam smiled grimly, and shook his head once, eyes never leaving Hal's face. 'No.'

'Do you mean, like this?' Hal reached out one leisurely hand, and almost playfully thudded his palm against Sam's shoulder. This was Sam's breaking point - he couldn't back down now - and he brought his fists up, ready to spoil this absurd fop's pretty face. Hal drew back his lips, and this time he definitely hissed as his fangs descended and the blackness filled his eyes.

Sam hissed right back, and the flat suddenly seemed a great deal brighter. He stopped in his tracks, almost recoiling from the light streaming in through the slim crack in the curtains, narrowing his eyes against its glare. Where the room had been gloomy before, it now seemed floodlit. Even the usually dingy wallpaper was vibrant. Every colour seemed to contain a rainbow, the browns and tans and beiges had levels of nuance he couldn't have dreamed of. As he realised this, and realised that he was gawping and making an easy target of himself, he also noticed that his mouth felt fuller than usual. His top lip, initially curled back in his fury, seemed now to be pushed as much as pulled upwards. He unclenched a fist to hesitantly reach up and touch his canines, first right, then left.

They were fangs.

_They're fucking fangs._

In his face. Fangs.

He brought his attention back to Hal, who still looked as though he might take a swing for him but had at least been a gent enough not to do so while Sam was so obviously distracted, then staggered backwards to the bed again, and sat down heavily.

He gave a long blink, and afterwards things looked as dull as they ever had. He could only assume that his eyes had turned as black as Hal's, and were now back to normal, though there was no way to be sure. He felt his... teeth... retract (he wasn't using the f-word again, at least not for now), and when he patted them with a reluctant fingertip, they felt normal, too.

He looked back up at Hal, who had also reverted to his usual appearance, and opened his mouth to speak. At first, nothing would come out. Finally, it did, in a voice that sounded far away, more like a recording than anything real.

'I'm a vampire?'

'Finally!' Hal rolled his eyes to the ceiling, but when they returned to Sam he seemed to think better of his scorn, and stepped forwards, leaning closer and lowering his voice.

'I'm sorry,' he said, in a gentler tone, 'but yes. If I hadn't... you would have died. You almost did, as it is.'

_PUNCH HIM._

The voice was irresistible this time, and Sam hauled back and punched Hal in the face, throwing his shoulder into it. The vampire rocked backwards, hand flying up to cover his assaulted cheekbone. He drew it away quickly, straightening up and starting to form fists again. Sam, however, remained seated on the bed, elbows resting on knees and hands hanging laxly downwards, all activity spent. He looked up at Hal.

'I'm a vampire,' he repeated, but this time without the question mark.

Hal dropped his fist again and sighed, but in regret more than frustration.

'Yes,' he said. 'You are.'


	4. Chapter 4

Hal tells Sam that they will have to live together, for a while. He won't be more specific than that, but Sam gets the impression that he means longer than a weekend. Clearly, this is not an option - there is no room in Sam's flat for more than one person, and there is no way he's leaving, even temporarily. This becomes even more certain when Hal grudgingly admits that he lives with two other people, above a barber's shop in - wait for it - Southend. He was only supposed to be in Manchester for a holiday; a treat, he says, for good behaviour.

This sounded ominous, but Sam didn't feel ready to push it, or push him as to why he would choose Manchester, of all places, to take a holiday. Either way, with the Guv turning up at Sam's door at unpredictable moments (that is, when he bloody feels like it), it would be impossible to keep a lodger a secret. And a secret it must be; Sam had had a hard enough time when he told Gene he was a Sagittarius, this latest development was a bridge too far. A really big bridge, at that. A Golden Gate Bridge too far.

'But you will need help, and support, in the coming weeks,' Hal was saying, his supply of patience obviously wearing thin.

'For the last time: help and support with what?' Patience was in short supply in the room as a whole. They were both sitting at the folding table, now, and they had progressed from tea to Scotch. Sam took a sip of his, for once relishing the medicinal taste; it burned out the thirst in his throat. For a while.

Hal sighed as he looked across the table. 'Changing is... difficult. Tumultuous. You will start to have thoughts and feelings you don't know how to deal with.'

'Are we still talking about the vampire thing, or do you think I'm about to hit puberty again?'

'Puberty is a delight, compared to what is happening to you now,' Hal said, darkly.

'Just as well,' said Sam, finishing his second whisky and pouring a third. 'Don't think I could keep up that level of pornography consumption at my age, anyway.'

Hal slammed a hand on the table. 'This is not a joke! If you knew...'

'Well stop noncing around and tell me, then!'

The voice of Gene Hunt sniggered in Sam's brain. Hal looked confused.

'Noncing about?' he asked, brow furrowed.

'Never mind,' said Sam, quickly. 'What I mean is, it'll probably be best if you just lay it all out for me, so I know what to expect.'

Hal heaved another sigh. 'Alright. The very first thing is your heart rate - it drops when you change. It's beating at a fraction of the rate you're used to. That's why you were dizzy, and nauseated.'

Sam looked doubtful.

'Check for yourself, then,' Hal retorted, exasperated again. The domino was back out, turning restlessly between his thumb and fingers. Sam's curiosity about this was growing, but it would have to wait while he addressed all the other things he didn't understand. There was a long line.

Sam put his fingers to his wrist, three of them in a neat row over the blue vein. After a moment, he shifted them over a little, his face clouding. Then, frowning, he brought them up to his neck, pushing them in under the corner of his jaw.

Hal didn't watch him, instead looking down at the spinning domino between his fingers. Eventually he glanced up, to see Sam trying the other side of his neck.

'I told you,' he said, blandly.

'That's impossible,' Sam snapped. Hal gave him a silent look, then continued speaking as though there had been no interruption.

'The next thing is the thirst - and I can see it's already started.'

This time, Sam didn't deny it. He took another drink from his glass, then put it down and nodded.

'It doesn't matter how much I drink, I'm still thirsty. Is it permanent?'

'No...' said Hal, slowly. 'No, it's not permanent, but it only goes away when you feed.'

'I need to eat?'

'Let me put it to you this way: what is your favourite food?'

Sam replied without having to think: 'Mango chicken curry.'

'Really? Chicken and fruit?' Hal saw the thunderclouds cross Sam's face. 'No, right, good. Now, think of that meal. Picture it in front of you. Remember the smell, and the taste, as clearly as you can.'

Sam did as he was told, going so far as to close his eyes. Usually, he had a vivid imagination - something he occasionally cursed - but he had trouble with this exercise. He could picture it, but no matter how he tried it looked bland and boring. He couldn't recall the smell of a curry at all, and as for the taste, he could only remember the sweet tang of a mango, and even then it was muted in his mind.

He opened his eyes and looked at Hal, who was nodding sadly.

'Food will never be the same. Oh, you can eat it, and even enjoy it to a point, but it will never satisfy you. Your body craves something different, now, and you must learn to resist it, to deny it!' His voice grew more strident on these last words, and Sam finally realised what should have been clear much earlier.

_Great. I'm shacked up with a junkie._

I'm not shacking up with anyone, he insisted to himself. As for the other part, well, Hal showed some of the classic signs of an addict in recovery. The need for control, the love of order, the mood swings... That's why he had reacted so badly when Sam needled him about making a new vampire. A second epiphany struck: biting him, Sam, had been a relapse. He didn't seem to have taken much blood, but it had been enough. Too much, in fact. And despite all of that, instead of cutting and running, he was here, trying to help Sam understand and deal with what had happened to him.

Even though he and Hal had been at each other's throats since they'd met (quite literally, in Hal's case), Sam felt a twinge of sympathy. Addiction is a hard battle to fight, he'd seen enough cases to know. He felt bad that he had been so combatative, and changed his tone.

'Look, about last night...' There was a sentence that never ended well, and Hal looked wary at the sudden change of subject. 'I want to...' He stumbled here - did he really want to say thank you?

_Of course not! He's turned me into a bloody vampire!_

His own voice, with an inconvenient truth. He switched tactics.

'Well, you did what you had to. You saved my life.'

Hal looked away, gazing morosely into his own drink, then took a gulp. 'But at what cost?' he asked, and Sam was taken aback.

'It's not all that bad, is it?'

Hal looked up again, disbelief sketched in his face.

'I've been locked away for almost twenty years. Locked away so that I don't tear the living throats out of people on the street. Locked away and learning coping mechanisms, and setting a routine, and listening to Radio fucking Four to try and hold myself together. Radio Four! It's like trying to hold back the tide with a sponge. I get out for two days, as a break - a break for all of us - and I drink. Not only do I drink, I recruit!'

He laughed, a dreadfully bleak sound. His mouth was set in a sneer, but there were tears in his eyes.

'And now here I am, sitting in this shithole, missing my morning press ups, missing Any Questions, with only one domino to my name. How am I supposed to do this without dominoes?' He'd raised his voice again. Even if he was willing to put aside the disparaging comments about his flat, and it seemed like now was not the time to fight that battle, Sam had no idea what to make of the dominoes thing. That said, he may not understand it, but he thought he could help.

He got to his feet, thinking that he must finally have succumbed to absolute madness. Once you get to a certain point, though, everything beyond seems easy. Wake up in 1973? Alright, it had taken him a while, but he had a handle on it now. Sort of. Electrical appliances speaking to you in your mother's voice? Yes, that was heartbreaking to go through, not to mention batshit crazy, but he could almost take a sort of comfort from it, now. You get turned into one of the undead? This was still a bit of a sticking point, but he was processing it as best he could. There's a vampire sitting in your flat, shouting about Radio Four and dominoes? No problem. Get the lad a box of dominoes and he'll be right as rain.

There was a box in the one cupboard that Sam had never cleared out - it's probably where Hal had found the cups and saucers, in fact, which meant it was surprising that he hadn't found the dominoes for himself. He opened it cautiously, as he always did, to allow for the possibility that something might have shifted and there would be an avalanche of junk waiting to pour out... and found the contents stacked and arranged neatly. Of course. He scanned the contents, looking for the yellowing, ragged cardboard box that he knew he'd seen in here when he moved in. Finally he found it, in among a half-empty packet of candles and a stack of indecent playing cards that Gene would probably love. The debris of someone else's life - there had been a cupboard like this in every flat Sam had rented as a student, too. Sometimes you found good stuff, sometimes only junk that you couldn't quite allow yourself to throw out. After all, it wasn't his stuff; it wasn't his flat.

He withdrew the box and closed the cupboard again, bringing the dominoes back to the table where Hal was spinning the one he'd brought in his pocket fast enough to power the whole townhouse, if they'd hooked him up to a generator. Sam sat back down, placed the box on the table in front of Hal, and leaned back, lifting his glass again.

Hal stopped toying with the one in his hand, and looked at the battered box in front of him. Then, he reached out for it, and pulled it across the table. He lifted the lid off, the corner held together with ancient sellotape crackling faintly, and set it aside. The box was full - not one missing, which seemed to Sam to be a minor miracle. Hal looked down at them for longer than Sam could credit, and when he looked back up his face was a mask of tragedy; everything downturned, mouth slightly open, eyes even damper than before.

'Why are you being kind to me?' he asked, voice rich with pathos.

Sam shrugged it off. 'Tried shouting at you, didn't work. It's only an old box of dominoes.'

Hal shook his head, looking back at them as though they were a treasure made of platinum and diamonds.

'They are the most powerful tool in my arsenal. They keep me safe. They control me - and him.'

Jesus Christ - back to the drawing board. The vampire thing might be true but he's still a nutter.

'Him? Who's "him"?' Sam asked, not sure that he wanted to know.

'Pray that you will never find out.' That seemed to be all that Hal had to say on the matter, and even as he said it he was clearing the table, removing his full glass and empty teacup to the floor. Sam lifted his own glass, and the whisky bottle, before they were swept out from under him, and took another drink as he watched Hal remove the box to his lap. He began to stack them on the table, one by one, very gently; each balanced on its end, each the same distance apart. He built a spiral, starting in the centre of the table and working out. As he worked, the tension and sadness eased out of his face, to be replaced by a kind of blank, though intense, concentration. Sam may as well not have been there; in fact, Hal seemed entirely unaware of his surroundings at all, so intent was he on the growing chain of dominoes on the table. His movements became smoother, calmer, and his shoulders slowly dropped. By the time the table was full, Hal had regained his composure. It took a long time.

Sam had edged backwards with his seat, fearful of knocking the spiral over before its time. He'd also topped up his Scotch, and was feeling a muted buzz, though not as much as he'd have expected. Maybe this vampirism had its plus side - next time they went to the pub, he might even be able to out-drink Gene.

Hal kissed the last piece, a gesture that may have seemed melodramatic on any other day, and placed it upright with its fellow soldiers. He sat back, carefully, looking at his creation. He took a deep but careful breath, face solemn.

'That's quite something,' said Sam, breaking the stillness in the room. He saw Hal contain a twitch, just barely, before he looked over.

'Thank you,' he answered, briefly. He obviously hadn't appreciated the input, and Sam decided to employ some discretion from here on.

God, the thirst. It was getting worse. Even the whisky wasn't cutting through it any more. He felt restless, wanting to get up and pace, but knew it wouldn't help. He felt a sudden and deep need to speak to Gene. He wondered what the Guv would say if he told him he was here with a strange man, playing with dominoes.

_I'd say you were a pansy, Gladys, and you know it._

He gave a short smile. That was the Guv, alright.

Hal had started disassembling the spiral, one block at a time, and it took Sam a few moments to realise how odd this was. He wasn't going to knock them over, he was just going to stack them back up neatly, then return them to the box. Or maybe he'd start all over again - this could go on for some time. Mind you, there was something to be said for it. Less mess, for one, and it was clear this Hal character was no more fond of mess than Sam was himself. He supposed it was all part of his coping strategy. He wondered how long he'd been a vampire - there seemed to be little point in denying that's what he was. What they both were, in fact. Hal had said he was an Old One (capital letters implied), which presumably meant he'd been around a long time. It was probably bad form to ask, especially when he was so strung out about it.

So, instead, Sam sat back and only watched as Hal took each domino down and stacked them on the table. Then, to his relief, they went back into the box, one column at a time, and finally, they lid went back on. As Hal closed the box, he seemed more together and in control than before - back to how he'd been when Sam woke up for the first time. His eyes - which Sam could see now were lighter than he'd first thought (or had they changed?) - were dry again. He reached to the floor by the table for his discarded glass, and took a sip of the whiskey in there. The taste made him close his eyes as his whole head tilted to one side, then he righted it again with a tiny shake, and looked straight at Sam.

'If you won't leave, I will have to stay with you,' he said, calmly and clearly, as though their conversation had never been interrupted.

Sam was shaking his own head now, lining up all the oh-so-reasonable arguments he'd trotted out already, when they were interrupted by a hammering on the door.

'TYLAH!'


	5. Chapter 5

'TYLAH!' Sam jerked in his seat; he'd been so intent on watching Hal deconstruct his domino spiral that he hadn't heard the undoubtedly unsubtle approach of the Guv. He suddenly realised he was still topless; there had seemed more important things to address than his modesty, in this oddity of a morning. Some of his drink had leaped from his glass at the sudden movement, and he brushed the amber drops off his skin.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

'Tyler, you in there?'

This was exactly what he'd been talking about - Hal couldn't stay here, they'd be found out. Had already been found out. He looked over at Hal, not sure what to say. The other man had got to his feet, startled and tense once again. Should he tell him to hide? Where?

'Who is that?' Hal asked in a low voice.

Sam smirked, finding a dark humour in this whole situation.

'I'd say "pray you'll never find out"... but I think it's too late for that.'

Hal did not share Sam's amusement.

'He can't be here, whoever he is. It's too dangerous.' Sam snorted at this.

'If he wants to come in, he'll be coming in. May as well run some damage limitation.' He began to walk towards the door, having no desire to replace or repair it yet again.

'No!' Hal's tone was louder than he'd perhaps intended, and the panic in it gave Sam pause. He wasn't the only one who'd heard it, either, as Gene bellowed through the door.

'Sam!' A brief silence. Hal shook his head mutely, mouth downturned, eyes silently begging Sam not to open the door.

'Coming!' Sam replied, loud enough for Gene to hear him, meeting Hal's eyes steadily. He lowered his tone. 'He knows I'm here - he'll just kick the door in if I don't open it. I have to speak to him.'

Hal's expression grew increasingly distraught, and Sam lost patience. He snapped his fingers.

'Snap out of it, man. We have to do this, and do it well, or I'll never hear the end of it. However dire you _think _the consequences are, believe me, they're not as dire as Gene Hunt in a temper.'

With these angry words, and ignoring the no doubt impassioned reply Hal had begun to form, he spun on his heel and made it across to the door, opening it just as Gene began to shout in again.

'TYLAH!' As he laid eyes on Sam, he dialled the volume back down, utterly unabashed. 'About time. Wanted to make sure you hadn't been drugged and tied up by some tart again... Oh. I see we may not be ruling that out just yet.' His eyes had gone to Hal; Sam daren't look behind him.

'Wanted an early night, Guv, that's all.' Sam ignored the usual aspersions on his sexuality, and hoped that his guest would either not understand or not take issue with the veiled suggestion that he might be a rent boy. He hadn't fully opened the door, and positioned himself in the gap like a barricade.

'Yes. So I see.' Gene's eyes came back to Sam, and he raised his eyebrows suggestively. 'Well, I suppose I'd best not disturb you two any longer...' He trailed off as he noticed the stab wounds on Sam's stomach. 'What's happened to you, then? Is he into the rough stuff?'

Sam couldn't contain a wince. There were many ways to describe Hal, but stupid was not one of them - he would know exactly what Gene was implying. In fact, implying was too subtle a word - Gene Hunt wouldn't be caught dead suggesting something when he had the opportunity just to say it outright, in a loud voice. He decided to stick with his policy of ignoring the slurs.

'That? Happened a couple of weeks ago.' His brain spun furiously, as he tried to maintain a casual expression. 'Hurt myself going over that fence after Dodds, didn't I?'

Gene didn't look convinced.

'No, you didn't. And I _know_ that you didn't because I would have remembered your pansy-arsed whining about it afterwards.'

'I decided it'd be better to suffer in silence. Knew I wouldn't get any sympathy,' Sam replied, keeping his tone as light as he could without seeming suspicious. There was almost nothing more suspicious than someone not getting annoyed when they should. Bearing this in mind, he spoke again, before Gene could reply.

'Is there something I can help you with, Guv?' He injected just a little sarcasm into the words, making it clear in his own way that he didn't appreciate the intrusion.

Gene's eyes had remained on the scars on Sam's stomach, eyeing them cynically. He brought them back up, now, and there was a familiar thoughtful cast to them that Sam knew to be wary of. Gene wasn't buying his story, sparse as it had been - if they started getting into details, he was in trouble.

_Get rid of him, then. _

It was his own voice, he couldn't deny that, but they didn't have the feel of his own words. And the meaning behind them was much deeper, much darker, than he liked. Except... except that the same part of him that was having that thought _did_ like it. That part of him was relishing the idea of 'getting rid' of Gene. His tongue darted out to wet the corner of his lips.

_You know you could do it. Or just let him behind you do it, he's only an inch away from losing the plot as it is. He'd probably thank you, afterwards. _

Gene was speaking to him. Had to concentrate. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, making it hard to listen.

'...check you hadn't taken a trip off down the yellow brick road, after last time. You left in a hurry, last night. Didn't answer your phone when I tried to call.'

'Just tired, like I said. Phone must be broken.' Now he'd done it - a lie like that was easy to disprove. Gene's eyes were already making their way to the phone's usual resting place.

'I think I can clear this up, gentlemen.' The unfamiliar distinguished tones came from directly behind him.

'I unplugged the phone, last night when we got back. I didn't want us to be disturbed.'

Gene's eyebrows hiked themselves further into his hairline. 'Seems to me like you're already disturbed, mate. Both of you.' He shot a glance back at Sam. It was one thing for Gene to bandy around the rumours that Sam was, as he would so delicately put it, a shirt lifter - it would be another altogether if he thought it were true. Sam wasn't sure what exactly would happen, but he suspected that it would make their semi-regular punch-ups seem like a roll in the hay by comparison.

Hal seemed to have caught the vibe in the room, because he continued calmly.

'I think you misunderstand me, Mister...?'

Gene returned his eyes to Hal, and Sam watched unnoticed as Hunt's face became carefully blank. He'd seen this happen so many times, by now; when Gene went into lockdown, it was a top-down process. His eyebrows would drop into neutral, the muscles around his eyes would relax and the eyes themselves would clear. No emotion. His mouth would settle into a half-pout - or a half-smile, occasionally - and his shoulders would settle. His hands would go into his pockets, or he'd casually reach for a cigarette to light. It happened quickly, but Sam knew the signs. He appeared to be idling, maybe not even really listening, but the truth was that he was taking everything in, and giving nothing back out. This made him unpredictable. Even more than usual.

Sam's heart pounded louder in his ears, seeming to fill his head. He struggled to hear.

Gene had stepped forward, brushing Sam aside as easily as a paper screen.

'Hunt,' he was telling Hal. 'DCI Gene Hunt.' He surprised Sam by extending a hand for Hal to shake, and Sam had a sudden intuition that Hal wasn't the hand shaking type. However, his face showed no discomfort, and he smoothly reciprocated, taking Gene's hand in a firm grasp. They shook twice, maintaining eye contact that had begun to feel tense.

Bullshit macho posturing. God save us.

Hal began to speak again before they unclasped, and when Sam looked he could see the tendons standing out on Hal's hand. Gene still had his driving gloves on - presumably this was intended to be some kind of slight, was probably a transgression of the code of manly manners. Hal seemed perfectly comfortable, however, and since holding hands with another man was worse than being the first to drop a handshake, Gene had no option but to let go.

'DCI Hunt, of course. Sam spoke of you. I think you misunderstand me, Mister Hunt. I did not want us to be disturbed because we had a lot of catching up to do. You see, we're cousins, and Sam has done me the kindness of offering a place to stay, for a week or two, while I visit Manchester.'

That cheeky sod. He was railroading Sam into this, now.

'I wanted to be able to hear all about Sam's work, it's a subject that fascinates me. And, of course, he had a lot to say about how much he's learned from you.'

Did I say cheeky? I meant shameless. Surely Gene wasn't going to fall for this?

Gene was saying something in reply, but the thudding of his pulse had finally filled Sam's head and he could hear nothing else. And then he realised: it wasn't his own heartbeat he was hearing. His heartbeat was running a reduced service, these days, like buses on a Sunday. He also realised that he couldn't feel it thumping in his chest, nor in his throat, as he'd expect if it was pounding as he'd thought.

It was Gene's heart he could hear.

Gene's heart, thudding rhythmically in his chest. The thought of all the blood flowing in the man's veins was dizzying. And enticing. And infuriating. He found himself watching the vein in Gene's neck as it pulsed - he'd never noticed it before, and that seemed impossible, now. It was so obvious. It was so _loud. _

He took a small step nearer, hypnotised by the sound in his ears.

He was so thirsty. He'd been thirsty since he woke up.

_Drink._

Yes.

A hand on his arm stopped him, brought him out of the semi-trance he'd been in.

'Isn't that right, Sam?'

Hal was asking him something. He turned to him, eyes ablaze, furious at being interrupted.

'What?' he snapped.

'I was telling DCI Hunt about our plans for the weekend. You're going to show me the sights. All the wonders Manchester has to offer. Aren't you?' he prompted, his hand on Sam's arm gripping tightly. Sam's eyes could have cut steel.

'All the wonders, alright,' he said, his voice sounding different and far off. 'Things you wouldn't believe.' He was speaking to Hal, but he turned to face Gene. 'Think we might start by having a drink.'

He tried to wrest his arm away, but Hal's hold was firmer than he'd thought, and he turned back again, anger becoming fury.

'I think we should sit down and make an itinerary first, Sam.' Sam's jaw muscles bunched and he drew his face into a scowl.

'Jesus Christ.' Gene's voice was faint through the enormous drumming of his heartbeat. 'An itinerary, no less. There's two of you right enough, Tyler.'

Sam blinked, felt the colours brighten and his teeth lengthen. He smiled. This felt so right. Why on earth had he been resisting? The fear on Hal's face only made him smile wider. Poor Hal. He didn't see how pathetic he was, how he was limiting himself with his routine and his distractions and his dominoes. Once he was finished with Hunt, maybe Hal would want some. And maybe then they could hit the town for that drink.

'Sam...'

'Tyler?'

_Tyler._

The voices came both from within and without, notes of crisis and concern and command cutting through everything else, creating a harmony that achieved what Hal's bruising grip alone couldn't. He blinked again, returning his face to normal with a jolt of guilt and a wave of vertigo. It was like waking from a very deep sleep, the kind of sleep where you had dreams you would never admit to in the daytime. He turned to face Gene, who was regarding him with a look that suggested he was behaving like even more of an oddball than usual.

Sam took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, trying to remember what the other two had been saying and join in the conversation.

'Yes, an itinerary. Busy weekend ahead, Guv.'

'Oh well, I'd best leave you to it. Wouldn't want to cramp your style,' Gene said, sounding scathing but with a wary cast to his eyes. Sam could see that he knew something was up; hopefully he could pass it all off on Monday as a hangover, or as stress over having a family member visit, or something, anything, that wasn't the truth.

He was nodding, agreeing with Gene, agreeing that it was time for him to go.

'Thanks Guv. See you Monday,' he was saying, getting ready to usher him out of the door. He had to get him out of here. He was only on top for now; that other voice could come back at any second. He could feel it waiting.

Gene paced backwards to the doorway, eyes alternating between Sam and Hal, face impassive again. 'Right. See you later then.'

'A pleasure to meet you, Mister Hunt,' said Hal. He had removed his hand from Sam's arm, but when Sam moved he could see Hal's arm twitch out of the corner of his eye, ready to restrain him if necessary. It wasn't, not now. He stepped forward only to close the door behind Gene.

'Bye, Guv.' He tried to make his tone friendly but final. Gene nodded first to Hal, then to Sam, eyes still shielded, but lingering on Sam longer than usual, and flickering down to the scars on his stomach again briefly before he turned and walked off, without any further words. Sam closed and locked the door behind him, then leaned his back against it, letting out a long sigh. His hands went to his face, covering his eyes before moving up to scrub through his hair. He was exhausted, conflicted, confused. And thirsty.

This was a bloody nightmare.

He looked at Hal, who stood in the middle of the floor where Sam had left him.

'Do you see?' he asked, voice hectoring and sharp. 'I told you. You're not safe.' He emphasised every word, biting spaces between them.

Without thinking about it, Sam took the three steps over and delivered a solid and unexpected punch to Hal's jaw. It was expertly delivered, and the man went down like a sack of spuds.

All the voices in his head cheered.


End file.
